4. The Morning After. Again
4
THE MORNING AFTER... AGAIN
CONNOR
Turns out "panic attack pancakes" are harder to make when you're not in your own kitchen.
"Sir," the very patient hotel chef says for the third time, "I assure you we can handle breakfast."
"But do you have the right ratio of chocolate chips to batter?" I lean over the counter, probably looking deranged in my Elvis robe. "Because it needs to be exactly?—"
"Connor." Ariana's voice comes from behind me. "Maybe let the professionals handle this?"
I turn to find her in her matching robe, her hair pulled back in what might be the world's messiest bun. She's scrubbed off most of her makeup, and there's still a slightly wild look in her eyes, but somehow this woman is even prettier in the harsh morning light filtering through the restaurant's windows.
It's 9 AM on a Friday in March, and I've been married for approximately eight hours to a woman who makes my chest do weird things even while wearing tacky hotel merchandise.
And I’m absolutely, one-hundred-percent not checking her out …
I think.
"I promised you panic attack pancakes," I remind Ariana Bristol as she slides onto one of the high-backed chairs at our corner table. "Very specific pancakes."
"And I'm sure they're fantastic." She adds sugar to her coffee with slightly shaky hands. "But maybe antagonizing the hotel staff isn't the best start to our annulment proceedings?"
Right. Annulment. Because we got married. By Elvis.
"About that..." I sit across from her, trying not to notice how the robe gaps slightly at her throat. "We should probably discuss?—"
"Oh god." She nearly drops her coffee. "Your IPO."
"My what?"
"Your Initial Public Offering." She sets the cup down carefully. "The one you mentioned last night between tequila shots. The one that's probably going to tank when the press finds out you drunk-married your best friend's cousin's ex-fiancée."
I blink. "You remember that conversation?"
"I remember everything up until bar four." She winces. "After that it gets... creative."
"Creative how?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure at some point you tried to convince me that the solution to all our problems was starting a rival PR firm called 'Better Than Drake.'"
"That's actually not a terrible name."
"It's a horrible name." But she grins. "Almost as horrible as that verse you added to 'Can't Help Falling in Love.'"
"I did what now?"
"Something about crisis management being the new way to say 'I love you.'" She accepts a plate of pancakes from a waiter, definitely not meeting my eyes. "It was very... passionate."
"Please tell me there's no video."
"Just the one the chapel took.” She pours what might be an illegal amount of syrup on her pancakes. "Which that Elvis- impersonating reverend better delete if he knows what's good for him."
I watch her cut into the stack with probably more force than necessary. "You know, for someone who claims to be having a panic attack, you're handling this pretty well."
"Oh, I'm definitely panicking." She takes a bite, then makes a sound that does unfortunate things to my blood pressure. "I'm just very good at compartmentalizing. Also, these are really good pancakes."
"They're not the real panic attack pancakes," I grumble, but accept my own plate. "Those require a very specific?—"
"Chocolate chip ratio, yes." She grins. "You mentioned that. Several times. Along with your very strong opinions about proper maple syrup temperature."
"It's important!"
"Sure it is, honey." She freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. "I mean... not honey. Obviously. That was just a... a thing people say."
"Right." I clear my throat. "Just like 'wife' is just a thing people say. When they're accidentally married. In Vegas."
"Exactly." She sets her fork down carefully. "About that. We should probably..."
"Yeah."
"I mean, we need to..."
"Absolutely."
We stare at each other over our pancakes. Her cocoa-brown eyes, sharp and unreadable, hold mine. Last night was too much of a blur to appreciate just how stunning she is—thick, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, the soft curve of her mouth, the way the ridiculous gold lamé robe hangs just a little off one shoulder, exposing smooth, golden skin.
"This is ridiculous," she finally says, breaking the moment. "We're adults. We can handle this maturely."
"Completely maturely." I gesture with my fork, trying not to let my eyes drift too low. "Just two professionals dealing with a minor administrative error."
"Exactly. A small clerical issue that happened to involve Elvis."
"And poker chip rings."
"And matching robes."
We both look down at said robes, then back at each other.
Her lips part slightly, and I swear my brain short-circuits.
"Oh god." She drops her head to the table, groaning. "We're in public in Elvis robes."
"Very expensive Elvis robes," I offer, grasping for anything to keep my thoughts from slipping into completely inappropriate territory. "The gold lamé really brings out your eyes."
She lifts her head just enough to glare at me, but there’s a flicker of something else there—something that makes my pulse do a slow, lazy roll.
"Why aren't you more freaked out about this?"
"Who says I'm not?" I reach for my coffee, my fingers tightening around the mug. "I'm just better at hiding it. Also, I won a yacht."
"You what now?"
"A yacht. Though technically I haven't won it yet." At her confused look, I explain, "Alex, Grayson, and I made a pact in business school. Last one to get married gets the yacht."
"You have a yacht?"
"We have a yacht. Joint purchase after our first successful ventures. Grayson's freakishly in love with his girlfriend Roz, Alex is getting married in two months..."
"And now you." She runs a hand through her hair, and I watch, hypnotized, as the strands slip through her fingers. "Though I'm pretty sure accidental Vegas weddings don't count."
"Probably not." I watch her add more syrup to her pancakes, the movement oddly sensual, and—fuck. I need to stop looking at her mouth. "What about you? No marriage pacts in PR school?"
"Didn't have time for pacts." She keeps her eyes on her plate. "Between work and Dad's medical bills and my sisters... marriage wasn't exactly a priority."
"Until Will?"
"Until Will." She sighs, dragging the tines of her fork through the syrup. "Though that was more about... I don’t know. Stability? The idea that someone else could handle things for a while?"
"And how'd that work out?"
"About as well as your high school sweetheart situation, I'm guessing."
I wince. "Fair point."
"What happened there?" She looks up, and for the first time this morning, her expression softens. "If you don't mind me asking?"
"Classic story. Boy meets girl, boy waits years to tell girl how he feels, girl marries boy's best friend instead."
"Ouch."
"Yeah." I stab a pancake. "Though to be fair, marriage wasn’t exactly on my wishlist anyway. Not after watching my mom walk out on my dad when I was sixteen."
"That must have been hard."
"Could've been worse." I shrug, trying not to let the memory settle too deep. "At least she waited until after his company went public to leave him for her yoga instructor."
Ariana’s eyes widen. "She didn't."
"Oh, she did. Very enlightened, apparently. Very spiritual. She sent us all meditation crystals for Christmas that year."
"God." She shakes her head. "And I thought my family was complicated."
"Yeah? Try me."
She hesitates, but the air between us shifts, thickens .
Last night was chaos, a drunken blur of impulsive decisions, but this—this is something else. A slow, magnetic pull. The world shrinks, and suddenly, it’s just us.
"Well..." She takes a deep breath, and I watch the way her lips part, the way her throat moves as she swallows. "Mom died when I was young. Dad worked three jobs to keep us afloat, then his kidneys started failing. My older sister Kat basically raised us while working through law school. The younger one, Lily, is... a free spirit."
"Define 'free spirit.'"
"She once tried to start a business selling vintage clothes she found in dumpsters."
I almost sputter on my coffee. "You're kidding."
"I wish. She called it 'Trash to Treasure.' I had to talk her out of the trademark application."
"Please tell me there are photos."
"Absolutely not." But she’s grinning, and goddamn, that smile is lethal. "Though I might have some videos of her 'authentic urban foraging' process."
"I would pay good money to see those."
"Sorry, but as your wife, I have to protect your interests. Can't have blackmail material floating around during your IPO."
The word 'wife' lingers between us, heavy and charged. My pulse kicks up. Her breath catches.
We both freeze.
"Right," I say carefully. "About that..."
Her phone buzzes, breaking the moment. She glances at it, then goes pale.
"Ariana?"
"I..." She stares at the screen. "I have to go."
"What? Why?"
"Because apparently my ex is very good at social media revenge." She turns the phone so I can see the post – some inspirational bullshit about 'dodging bullets' and 'finding your authentic self' accompanied by a photo of him with a suspiciously familiar brunette.
"Is that..."
"My college roommate? Yes. Yes it is." She stands abruptly, clutching her robe closed. "And it's going viral."
"Wait." I reach for her hand but she's already backing away. "Let me help. We can figure this out together."
"No offense," she says, still retreating, "but I think we've done enough figuring out things together."
"Ariana—"
"I'll have my lawyer contact you about the annulment."
"At least let me?—"
But she's already gone, leaving nothing but a faint scent of vanilla and the ghost of her laugh haunting our corner table.
I look down at my poker chip ring, then at my phone where Alex has helpfully sent me approximately eight thousand texts about my "epic Vegas romance."
Well, shit.
Looks like I might need those panic attack pancakes after all.